Fixations
by AriMarvelUniverse
Summary: Companion piece to Antithesis. Foot!Leo 'verse. Saki's elite Chūnin Leonardo is the bane of all three Hamato's lives- not because he tries to kill them on a regular basis (although he does that too), but because he stimulates their most shameful desires without their permission. Raph just hates that the smug bastard does it without even trying.
1. Narratophilia (Donatello)

**Short drabbles featuring FootClan!Leo being a sexy nuisance in the turtle brothers lives and agitating their kinks. Darkish towards the end.**

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 **(A/N: Donnie's chapter. I thought this kink fit well with his intelligence and his personality. The idea hit me after I watched TMNT 2007, and Leo's voice just SMACKED me in the face with sexiness.)**

 **Tiny mention of t-cest... Well I guess it IS t-cest, but Leo's not a bro in this. So. Take that how you will LOLZ.)**

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 _Ch1- Silver Tongue (Narratophilia)_

 _Donatello is stimulated by words- long, hard, sensual words. Leonardo has amazing diction._

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Donatello had always liked big, long words, and how they sounded coming out of his mouth.

When he was younger, he'd scavenge through their meager collection to find the biggest books to read, partly out of interest and partly because he knew they'd have the biggest, longest words inside.

He'd sit at his desk for hours and practice them, rolling words like _Soliloquy_ and _Melancholy_ and _Machiavellianism_ around his tongue, loving the taste of them, pretty and papery. He scoured medical books and encyclopedias and thesauruses, unable to get enough no matter how many horribly elongated words and terms he crammed into his vocabulary.

He sampled other languages too. Spanish and Italian were beautiful and flowery, German was tart and salty and French was the juiciest language there was. But English was comforting and homey, like warm coffee. He did hold a fondness for Japanese, however, which Splinter appreciated.

He developed a bit of an oral fixation- his pens and pencils never lasted for more than a few weeks before inevitably winding up chewed and perpetually saliva dampened in the bottom of his lab trashcan. When he was bored or preoccupied he would gnaw on his fingers or knuckles, and his nails were always shorter than his brother's, but nothing physical ever felt or tasted as good as the tangible intangibility of words.

He was thirteen when he discovered that words could have a completely DIFFERENT taste. Trolling the internet late at night, Donatello found his first sample of erotica, and nearly lost his mind. Video porn had never really done anything for him- messy and loud and full of distracting sounds and annoyingly fuzzy camera shots.

Put SEX into WORDS, though, and Donatello found himself hooked and fascinated.

But even after he discovered the wonder of erotica, it was still hard pressed to find something that was actually to his palate. Often he could only find short, scrawled stories about sparkly vampires written by preteen fangirls trying to masturbate while they wrote, full of short, chopped, repeated words that grated on his nerves.

The words in those stories were vulgar and thick on his tongue and in his brain. They tasted dumb and sour, impersonal- "dick", "cunt", and "ass". Ugh.

 _(-there was only one acception to that list; "Fuck". For some reason he liked that one, the soft phoenetic ph leading into the guttural groan of "uh" before cutting of with a sharp, biting -ck, and the way it could be elongated into a tortured moan or snapped off in a pleasured chant never failed to send heated shudders down his spine. Of course it eventually became Raphael's favourite curse...but that was a story for another day.)_

And then, plumbing the depths of the werewolf smut infested Literotica site, he found it- a story named Avitus' Reckoning. It was set in ancient Rome, about a lowly, bookish mathematician and his sexual adventures. The language was complex and incredible and the sex scenes were so well defined and described they left him writhing and panting under his bed at night, rutting himself against the rough stone floor in the dark while the words danced a filthy cadence in and around his brain.

So long...so delectable...the story used every educational, sensual term for all things carnal and deviant.

He was halfway through before he realized that Avitus' lover Brutus was male. _(-and also held a strong personality resemblance to a certain red masked turtle. But again, another day.)_

The minute the picture popped into his head- of Brutus fucking a helpless Avitus into the wall of his villa and atop his scattered desk- Donatello consequently came harder than he'd ever come in his life. He quickly figured that he was gay, but being who he was, it didn't bother him in the slightest.

Until.

Until that one night when the sky was on fire, and the Foot and the Dragons were running rampant in the streets. Until, after weeks of rumors and glanced sightings, they finally met him. Leonardo.

Shredder's adopted mutant turtle son, and Karai's younger brother. His appearance was a shock to them all, his background was a mystery, his fighting skills were astonishing, and his personality was infuriating.

And yes, he was very attractive. But his voice, and the way he could use it...

Donatello first realized it when they fought face to face, and Leonardo had gotten the upper hand for a moment. He couldn't resist gloating a bit.

"How utterly unfortunate, Donatello."

His tone was a purr, stroking and provocative the way he picked out and carresed every hidden syllable and inflection in Donnie's name. He rolled over the _T's_ and made the _Un's_ almost a moan. The words weren't particularly big or impressive, but the way he said them sent a spike of heat straight to Donnie's groin even though the pain radiating through his head.

Hours later, even a late night re-reading of Avitus' encounter with the satyrs wouldn't calm his arousal down so he could sleep. He kept hearing Leonardo speaking in that deep, smooth voice, taunting him, forming the words and wrapping him up in them.

He grew harder and harder before finally breaking down and bringing himself to a bone rattling climax to the memory of the enemy turtle's lips and the fantasy of them pressed moistly into his skin, whispering debauchery to him while he fucked him steadily deeper on his desk, swallowing Donnie's gasps and screams and turning them against him in slick, wonderful words that made him want to do, obey, submit, twisting his cock around his lips like he did his name...

It got to the point where every erotica story he read would sound like Leonardo, and he would be too painfully hard to make it more than a few pages before his sheets were soaked in precome and he was grabbing frantically at his hard member, cross eyed with desperation until he painted his stomach with white, sticky guilt.

They continued to clash with Leonardo, and every night without fail Donnie would come to the imagined sounds and sight of his mouth, and the sinful things it could and would do to him. He stored every word, every curse and sentence in his memory, fuel for his desire.

Donatello hated him for it, truly and completely. It was hard to avoid staring at his lips when they bantered, and the worst part was, he was pretty positive Leonardo KNEW.

Why else would he have done it? Why else, when Donnie delivered a strike to his leg with his staff (a glancing blow, really, hardly even worth mentioning) did he look up, straight into his face, and say that ONE word?

"Nngn...Fuck."

The pained groan was exaggerated, mocking, but the WORD...

Donatello had frozen, shivering immediately, saliva welling in the back of his throat. He watched the word leave his mouth in slow motion, almost felt it hit him like a physical blow, and then the bastard REPEATED it, this time in Japanese.

 _"Sore o kizutsukemasu..."_ he breathed, pulling the words through his teeth like taffy. Donatello almost dropped to his knees, holding back a meek whimper.

Leonardo had smiled, and that smile burned itself into Donatello's retinas and remained there while he jerked off to it for the third time that night, cursing Shredder, Leonardo and Merriam Webster in every language he knew.

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 _ **"Sore o kizutsukemasu": Fuck. That hurt**. _

**_(PLEASE Review! I beg of you! I have an idea for Mikey's kink, but what do all of YOU think? Leave a suggestion, or vote in the new poll on my profile!)_**


	2. Stigmatophilia (Michelangelo)

**(A/N: And the winner is, Stigmatophilia! Fantastic. Read, and if you like, Review! Two more chapters in the works before we're done. Sorry for the delay.)**

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 _Ch.2: Michelangelo: Stuck on_ _You (Stigmatophilia)_

 _Mikey finds another turtle with an appreciation for body ink._

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When he was thirteen, Mikey realized just how freakishly ironic his name actually was. Yeah, all three of them had been named after "Renaissance Masters", and they'd heard the story a million times, but even still he thought it was pretty funny that out of his two brothers, the most artistic turtle was the one picked to be "Michelangelo".

He could say with a good level of confidence that he was the most artistic, too. Donnie was a psycho genius with his machines and doohickeys, and Raph could trick out a bike like you wouldn't believe, and if you wanted to be grisly, the bruise portraits he painted on criminals with his fists were like nothing Picasso ever dreamed, but Mikey was the only one at four that knew crayons were for pictures, not lunchtime snacks.

( _Alright so maybe he did chew on a few Crayolas, but seriously who names a color Mac and Cheese and not expect little kids to be curious? And Watermelon Popsicle? That didn't make him dumb, that made him sophisticated. Scented? Don't even go there.)_

Anyways, once he was completely sure that no, markers did not taste as good as they looked and sometimes smelled, he drowned the lair in scribbles and sketches. It was wet and cold and dark, except for the sunny pictures stuck up here and there.

The third time they moved they were a little older and it was less needed for them to hide so deep, so the moonlight got in a lot more and made it less like a giant grave, but Mikey still filled every scrap of paper he could with color and put them up wherever he wanted, whenever the inspiration struck him.

Splinter taught them ninjitsu, but Mikey taught himself how to be an artist. When Donnie came back from the junkyard with gigantic new books, Mikey would shake his duffel bag upside down until the art books he'd begged for tumbled out so he could clutch them to his chest and race back to his room like a lame little fiendish art pirate.

Math was like voodoo, grammar was for Nazis and English, seriously? What was his brain running on? Duh.

But Art, though... art was worth learning. 2d, 3d, painting techniques, pencils and oils. The supplies he scavenged, he loved like his first born, kept them under lock and key away from Raph's rage and Klunk's curious kitty paws. He learned most of his Japanese _(sorry, Splinter)_ while learning to draw Manga and Anime. Cooking was great, but art wasn't limited by the real world. He could do whatever he wanted with it, plug in his earbuds and let his wrists go nuts.

Getting older meant getting deeper, like emotion deeper, and his pictures showed that. Fears of the dark and lonliness and good ol' mutant insecurities kept his newer drawings firmly in his sketchbooks, but less so in his heart and mind.

Michelangelo was fifteen and drawing in front of the tv when a commercial for a tattoo shop came on, and by the end of it there was a huge drool puddle on his paper, mind blown, holy SHELL. He'd seen tattoos before on criminals, gang signs and shaky, crappy pictures that made the artist in him weep, but those were a whole new level.

The realism made his head spin, the colours and values were mouth watering and the way the designs curved and down, around and into the planes of flesh revved his motor like nothing else. A few passes of a needle created something dangerous, sexy, living art on warm skin. Art he could taste, touch, stroke.

He was hooked, line and sinker. The idea never left him alone. Shows like Miami Ink became his porn, recorded and watched late at night while he squirmed and whimpered on the living room couch, wet around his thighs with an aching tail. It didn't matter the gender of the person getting the tattoo, dude or dudette, it was all hot.

Michelangelo wanted a tattoo, he NEEDED a tattoo. He had to have one.

If he asked Splinter he'd lose his life, so he turned to his magic older brother. A few bribes and blackmails, some flashes of the puppy dog eyes and a makeshift tattoo gun made out of a bedazzler, a ballpoint pen and a sewing needle later, he had a tiny, permanent picture of a turtle on the inside of his leg, covered by his kneepad during the day.

Mikey almost came twice while he was doing it, untouched, hard and moaning through his teeth the entire time the needle danced over his skin. The sting of his sore flesh kept him horny for days, acting like a magic charm and turning him on every time he looked at it or touched it, or even thought about it. When he jerked off at night, he only needed to put his fingers on it before his sheets were soaked and sticky. The small blossom that appeared on his elbow was the same way, and the peace sign that showed up under his arm.

He figured out that there was something he liked even better than needle art after seeing a documentary on Henna and ancient body decorating. He almost killed himself experimenting with regular paints ( _heavy acrylic and reptilian skin didn't mix. Oil: water. It was ugly. Shudder.)_

But Michelangelo found out that he loved, loved, LOVED the feeling of a wet brush, more than the pinpricks of a needle. He found organic paints and went crazy, slithering colors and brushes over himself like cold, wonderful tongues, painting his own thoughts and designs in smooth, heated strokes and turning himself into a masterpiece, feeling the itch of drying pigments and come in the aftermath.

He wanted another canvas, another person to share his fetish with. But people weren't lining up to be the muse of a freaky teenage turtle, and he couldn't ask his brothers because ew, nasty.

And then Leonardo popped up, like an evil pimple that wouldn't go away.

Unfortunately, that evil pimple was revealed to have a tattoo, and it was hard for Mikey to keep his eyes away.

The first time he saw it, Leonardo had him in a headlock, and when he struggled to break it he caught sight of the Foot insignia enscribed into Leonardo's shoulder. It was perfectly centered, bright and popping against his oak green skin. Round at the sides and curved into sharp spikes at the top, the symbol was surrounded by black flames. The beauty and simplicity of it singed Mikey's soul. He wondered, as his vision blurred around the edges from lack of breathing and Leonardo hissed death into his ear, how it would taste.

After that, it only got worse; way, way worse. Every time they faced Shredder's new kid, Mikey noticed a new tattoo adorning him. They changed constantly, never the same, except for the first one.

A line of Japanese characters down his arm, some kind of ornate crest in the corner of his plastron, tribal bands around his ankles. Nothing flashy, but just sensual enough to keep Mikey looking. He caught himself copying the designs on his own skin.

The final straw was the Dragon. He didn't see it until the very end of one battle, but once he did it was impossible to UN-see. Karai called a retreat, and when Leonardo turned around...

The Dragon curled over the high ridge of the katana users back, an ancient scroll brought to life with the most vivid fiery reds and shimmering greens Michelangelo had ever seen. It's eyes were narrowed, leering and glittering at him, jaws open like it was going to swallow him whole. His fingers itched just looking at it, and saliva welled in his throat.

That night, paint soaked his fingers and stained his feverish skin. It slicked the hilt of his practice nunchucks when his fingers failed to be enough, easing the way inside while he fantasized about the Dragon, and the darkly hot turtle it rested on.

Michelangelo keened and sobbed into his pillows as he imagined Leonardo seeking out every secret picture and design on his body, licking and sampling them. He imagined the look on his face when Mikey lifted his tail, exposing the pawprint on the underside.

' _Pretty little slut...'_

The nunchucks slid deeper, pumping hard against his pleasure spot and he inhaled his blankets, and shook apart to the feeling of Leonardo's fingers on his thighs, his body blistering where their tattoos touched. He saw the Dragon come to life, arching off Leonardo's shell with a hiss and coiling around them as they fucked, streaking them both with the colors that burst behind his eyes.


End file.
